Promises, Promises
by MizJoely
Summary: He'd implicitly promised John that he wouldn't say anything. That he wouldn't ruin this for Molly. But how could he just stand by in silence when it was clear she was about to make the biggest mistake of her life? Sherlolly two parter, spoilers for TEH.
1. Not Saying Anything

_A/N: My contribution to the ever growing "break up Molly and Tom" fics "The Empty Hearse" inspired. He seems like he's a very nice man but we all know Molly isn't really attracted to "nice", don't we? LOL. She just thinks she SHOULD be...anyhoo, I will desperately work to get this finished before tomorrow night. Wish me luck!_

* * *

He'd promised John. _Promised_ him.

Well. Not promised, exactly, not _explicitly_ promised. But it was certainly implied when he told John,_ "I'm not saying anything."_ And John's response had been as clear as the proverbial bell.

"_Best not."_

Even though the words were just bubbling up inside him, aching to burst out through his lips (lips that he'd caught her admiring more than once, over the years, to his secret satisfaction), to find their way to her ears and make her _hear_ him. Make her listen.

Make her _believe_ – although believe what, he wasn't entirely sure.

But he'd promised.

He wasn't the only who'd seen it. John had seen it, Mrs. Hudson, even Mary (no, not 'even' Mary, she was by far one of the cleverest and most observant women he'd met and certainly the cleverest John had ever become involved with, he approved their upcoming marriage although no one had asked or was ever likely to ask his opinion) – even Lestrade had seen it. No, he hadn't scanned each and every face for their individual reactions, no time for that and no cameras in the flat for him to go back and review (a thought, that, but then, no, tedious, and undoubtedly something John would rule an invasion of privacy even if it was Sherlock's flat). But he'd _felt_ their gazes, on the back of his neck like an itch, the instinct that two years chasing down Moriarty's agents and destroying his network had taught Sherlock to trust.

They'd all seen it, all of them.

Everyone but Molly.

Even _Tom_ had seen it, for godssake! The expression on the other man's face when he'd first laid eyes on Sherlock…oh, yes. He'd seen it. And been just as startled, just as aghast, as everyone else. Except John, of course, who'd appeared to find it ridiculously funny that Molly was marrying a man who looked like Sherlock Holmes.

The question was, what to do about it?

If he asked John, the answer would be a firm, "Nothing." He _knew_ that. He'd promised, after all. _"I'm not saying anything."_

"_Best not."_ Good advice, sound advice.

Why was it turning out to be so blasted difficult to follow?

Molly said she was happy with this man, Tom, with his parents and his dog and their nights at the pub. No doubt spent drinking subpar beer and watching rugby or football matches on the telly with his boring mates and their equally boring girlfriends and wives.

Ordinary. Molly Hooper really wanted that, to be chained to a man who could only ever give her _ordinary_? When she could have…

His thoughts stuttered to a stop as he realized with a dawning horror what he'd been about to think. Even though he was the only one who would ever know what that thought would have been, he couldn't – _wouldn't_ – allow himself to finish it.

Because Sherlock Holmes didn't do _relationships_. He didn't do _girlfriends_. He'd managed this long without either, why change things up now? Change, that was something he also didn't do, not well, at least. But perhaps that was a fault rather than a strength?

He was pacing as he thought, his body matching the frenetic pace of his mind, both of them whirling. He moved around and around the sitting room, his burgundy dressing gown flowing behind him as he stepped over and onto the furniture when it presented itself in his path. His hands were clasped behind his back and he wasn't seeing the room at all. Instead, a series of very specific faces flashed through his mind's eye, and he paused, one foot on the low coffee table and the other still flat on the floor as he recognized and processed what his subconscious was trying to tell him.

He _had_ changed, before his two year absence from London. He did _friends_ now, and as he'd so obliquely told his brother not so very long ago, being alone no longer suited him. At. All.

Not since Gra—uh, _Greg_ Lestrade had first called him on his drug use, offering an alternative that was better than any high achieved through the use of pharmaceuticals and a needle. Not since Mrs. Hudson had become his surrogate mother since his move to Baker Street. Not since John Watson had proven himself to be a loyal and able friend. Not just someone who tolerated Sherlock or wanted something from him, but a true friend in every sense of the word.

Just like Molly.

Molly Hooper, who deserved so much better than ordinary, boring Tom what's-his-name and his shoddy imitation of – well, of someone who didn't deserve her, frankly.

No, Sherlock Holmes most certainly did not deserve Molly Hooper. Not as anything more than she already was: a valued and trusted friend and confidant. And just because he'd changed enough to do _friends_, did that really mean he was ready for…anything else, any other changes in his life? To let someone, perhaps, closer than even John had become? Was that truly so impossible?

He considered it as he resumed his interrupted pacing, forcing himself not to flinch away from the emotions he'd always sneered at in the past. Especially sentiment, the antithesis to logic and order, precursor to chaos. Did he really need anything so dangerous in his life?

But then again, when had Sherlock Holmes ever shied away from danger?

It wasn't, however, a decision that would only affect him. _She_ was involved as well; what if all he did was hurt her, the way he'd hurt her so many times in the past? Besides, she'd made her decision, her choice, and who was he to try and change her mind, to make her see the truth that was apparently staring all of them in the face but her?

He'd promised, after all, not to say anything…

A tentative grin spread across his face, growing in confidence as he saw it.

The loophole.

He'd promised not to _say_ anything.

He hadn't promised not to _do_ anything.


	2. Actions Speak Louder

_A/N: As promised, part 2, closing out this little saga. Whew, just made it before it gets negated by whatever happens in the next episode! Enjoy! And thanks for giving chapter 1 so much love, I really do appreciate it!_

* * *

Molly eyed the dress she'd picked out to wear to John and Mary's wedding on Saturday. Yellow, a bright, sunny, lovely yellow, perfect for an early spring day. She loved bright colors and patterns and comfort most of all when it came to clothes, and this yellow dress, with its lovely white polka-dots and soft fabric, combined all three. Just perfect.

Her smile faded as she reached out to stroke a finger along the bodice of the dress, before letting her hand fall back to her side. It would be even more perfect if she were attending the wedding with…no, best not finish that thought, she scolded herself silently. She was attending with her fiancée, with Tom, the man she'd promised to marry in another six month's time. And Molly Hooper was a girl who kept her promises.

That thought took her even more aback than the unfinished one just before it; since when had marrying Tom become such a burden, something to be endured and got through rather than something she wanted with all her heart and soul?

_Since _he_ came back_, her mind whispered in response.

He'd been back for nearly three months now, in fact. Not that she was counting (76 days). She'd seen him multiple times since that momentous day – many, many times, in fact. Mostly at the morgue or the Path lab, sometimes when John and Mary had dinners or cocktail parties, occasionally when Mrs. Hudson invited her for tea.

She hadn't known what to expect from him, after the day she'd spent not-being John Watson for him, back when John was still so angry at him for pretending to be dead for so long. He'd been so sincere, telling her congratulations and letting her ramble on about Tom and his stupid – uh, adorable – dog and his parents (who really were lovely, lovely people, if a bit boring). Then he'd kissed her on the cheek, the second time he'd kissed her there, and walked away.

She'd almost gone after him. Almost. It would have been a terrible idea, of course, which was why, nearly three months later (74 days), she barely ever thought about it, or wondered what might have happened if she had gone after him. And by barely, of course, she meant, oh, no more than once or twice a day.

Just as she didn't think about what might have happened if she'd stripped the ring from her finger and tucked it into her pocket and told him she was breaking things off with Tom.

Which, she hastily reassured herself while wiping away a tear (why on Earth was she crying, she was supposed to be happy!), was not something she wanted. Not. At. All.

Tom made her happy. Tom took her out on dates and let her ramble on about work (as long as it wasn't at mealtime, of course, a sensible ground rule she'd agreed to after their third date had ended up with his head in a rubbish bin while he spewed out the expensive dinner they'd just consumed); he liked her friends and she liked his (although the one bloke, Dave, was a git who couldn't keep his hands to himself, and Lou's wife, June, was a bit catty, and Gary couldn't hold his liquor and got positively obnoxious by night's end)...wait, what was she trying to do, now?

If she was trying to convince herself she was happy, that she was satisfied with the way her life was going...well, of course she was! She had no need to convince herself of anything, did she? No, of course not. She was just being silly. Never mind that it seemed almost as if Sherlock had been letting her go, after that marvelous day together solving (fake) crimes and helping clients and finding clues to the terrorism plot that had almost gotten him and John killed.

She made a face and hung the yellow dress back up, then made another face, this time as she realized she'd been clutching it so tightly as she lost herself in her thoughts that she was going to have to iron it all over again.

Oh well. The wedding wasn't until the day after tomorrow. It would wait. She shut the cupboard door, navigated her way past the ironing board (no point in putting it up if she was just going to have to take it right back down again) and walked out of her bedroom.

She paused on the threshold as it occurred to her that it was still only _her_ bedroom. She and Tom hadn't moved in together yet. But they'd been going to, hadn't they? She vaguely remembered discussing it with him over drinks and telly at his place...when had that been?

Oh. Right. A few days before Sherlock's return from the dead. Things had gotten a bit crazy after that, and she'd completely forgotten about it. But then, why hadn't Tom said anything to her, reminded her?

Maybe he thought she didn't want him to move in with her? Which was ridiculous. Of course she wanted to him to move in with her! They were going to be married, for heaven's sake!

She twisted her engagement ring on her finger, staring down at it, remembering the day Tom had placed it there. She couldn't wear it all the time, of course, not in her line of work, but she'd been very conscientious about not forgetting to put it back on once she was headed for home. She'd only left it behind in her locker once or twice, three times at most. Maybe four.

With a groan, Molly, dropped her head into her hands. She'd been so happy with Tom just three months ago. So pleased to think of spending the rest of her life with him, of being his wife and possibly having kids with him (something he'd managed to avoid discussing with her, come to think of it). So why did such a possibility now seem like a prison sentence, something to be endured rather than eagerly looked forward to?

The sound of the door buzzer broke her out of her increasingly distraught thoughts, and she hurried over to see who it was, more than grateful for the interruption.

Without bothering to look through the peephole, she unlocked the door and flung it wide, a bright smile plastered on her face in expectation of it being her upstairs neighbor or Mrs. Higgleston from across the hall, or even Tom. Someone for whom she would have to pretend (no, she wasn't _pretending_, dammit!) to be happy.

The smile vanished and her eyes widened as she took in the tall form of the man standing before her. The dark coat with the upturned collar. The dark curls, looking deliciously windblown. The elegant cheekbones. The...less than happy expression on his face. "Sh-sherlock?" Molly asked, clutching the door knob until her knuckles were white. "Is, is something wrong?"

He opened his mouth, lips parting just a crack, as if about to speak, but said nothing. Instead, he reached out, palm up (no gloves today, too warm for that even though he was still wearing the Belstaff, why?), as if waiting for her to give him something. Since she held nothing in her own hands (except the doorknob and of course he didn't want her to give him _that_, right?), the only conclusion she could come to was that he wanted her to give him her hand.

So she did.

Her fingertips came to rest on his wrist, not on purpose, of course. It just worked out that way, that she was able to feel his pulse fluttering beneath her fingers while her thumb rested passively on the edge of his hand. She wondered if her own pulse felt as strong – and erratic – as his. Was he nervous, worried, upset? He still wasn't saying anything, but before she could do more than open her mouth to nervously try to fill the silence (most likely with something entirely inappropriate or dull or silly), he brought his other hand up and rested a single finger against her lips, effectively shushing her.

Her breath caught, just the slightest bit, but the upward quirk of his lips told her he'd noticed. Of course he'd noticed; he was Sherlock bloody Holmes, he noticed _everything_. He noticed, he observed, he deduced...why wasn't he deducing her? Why wasn't he _saying_ anything?

Still holding her hand in his, he pulled his finger away from her lips. Molly had the mad impulse to lay a kiss on it but fortunately the moment passed and his hand was once again down by his side while the other one continued to hold her, fingers wrapped loosely around her wrist now.

Slowly, very slowly, he raised her hand up toward his face. Molly's breathing was entirely erratic now, her heart was pounding in her chest (why? She was _over_ him, she'd _moved on_, dammit!) and she caught her lower lip between her teeth as she waited to see what he would do next.

With slow, deliberate movements, Sherlock lowered his head, eyes never leaving hers, and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles. Molly's breath caught again, her eyes widening in a combination of shock and expectation and, yes, joy.

No. No, wrong, _not_ joy. She wasn't allowed to be happy because Sherlock was making what was clearly a romantic overture to her. She was _engaged_, she was going to be married in six months (Tom had pressed her to pick a date when she'd already told him she was fine with a long engagement, and in a panic she'd blurted out August 10th and he'd grinned and her heart had sunk a bit)...

"Oh, sod it, who am I kidding?" she heard herself mutter before pulling her hand from Sherlock's grasp. Continuing to maintain eye contact, she reached up and deliberately stripped the engagement ring from her finger, stuffed it into her pocket, and waited to see what Sherlock would do next.

She didn't have long to wait; with a decidedly wolfish grin, Sherlock reached out and pulled her into his arms, lowering his head to press a soft kiss to her lips. He pulled back after a few seconds, gauging her reaction; when all she did was huff impatiently and slide her hands up his back, he grinned again, much more bashfully this time, and allowed her to pull him down into a second, much longer (and deeply, deeply satisfying) kiss.

He was the one to deepen it, to slide his tongue along her lips until she opened for him, letting him demonstrate how very, very good he was at this kissing thing (_much better than Tom_, part of her whispered, before the rest of her muttered _shut it, you!_). And for a man who seemed to avoid physical contact with others as much as humanly possible, he certainly knew just how tightly to hold her, how to move his long, clever fingers up her shoulders and into her hair, tugging it free of the ponytail to which it was habitually confined and spreading it loosely across her shoulders.

This time when the kiss ended, Molly discovered that they'd somehow moved into her flat, that the door was now shut and that her own fingers were just as desperately entangled in his hair as his were in hers. "What took you so bloody long?" she blurted out, then bit her lip again and gave a slight shake of the head.

"I tried to show you how I felt," he replied, his voice huskier than usual, eyes so intent on hers that she felt like the only other person in the entire universe. "That first case you helped me with..."

"It was a date, wasn't it," Molly said, as realization dawned. "Oh, God, it was supposed to be a proper date, that day, not just a way to say 'thank you'."

He nodded. "But then I saw the ring and I realized you'd moved on and I thought it was best to let you...you deserve to be happy, Molly Hooper. And I didn't think it was fair, to try and disrupt that happiness. I might have been that selfish once, but I like to think I understand human nature a little better now."

"So you let me go," Molly said, and he nodded soberly. She did not miss the fact that he hadn't let her go this time, not physically; that his arms were still around her, his fingers still threading their way through her hair and gently rubbing her scalp. "What changed, then? Why did you come here today?"

He pursed his lips and cast his eyes to the side in an expression of – wait, no, that wasn't a _guilty_ look, was it? "Well, we all saw it, when you introduced him," he said, the words coming in a rush, as if he'd been holding them inside for so long that there was no way to stop them now. "It was obvious that, no matter what you said, you hadn't moved on. That instead you'd found someone who physically resembled me, so you could have me even though you didn't think you could actually have _me_. And I told John that I wouldn't say anything, so I didn't, but I tried to show you, to make you understand, but it wasn't working and that's why I came here today. To give you proof you couldn't ignore or mistake for anything else."

Molly's mouth dropped open as the words rushed – poured, streamed, _gushed_ – from his lips, and she left it hanging open while she took in what he was trying to tell her.

Something she couldn't ignore or mistake for anything else... "Tell me," she demanded, suddenly finding a courage she'd never realized she had. "Tell me, Sherlock. I know – at least, I think I know – what you're trying to show me, but I need to hear the words. Tell me." It sounded more like a plea at the end, but she was beyond caring. If he could say the words, then there could be no doubt, no confusion, no mistaking this moment for anything else. Just as he supposedly wanted.

His answer was immediate and unhesitating, as if he were expecting the question. Of course he was, Molly chided herself as he lowered his head once again, his lips just brushing her ear as he murmured: "I love you, Molly Hooper."

Then he moved her head, tilted it just enough to deposit another heated kiss on her lips, smothering her gasp of – not shock, not wonder, but joy. Pure, unadulterated joy.

"If our first baby's a girl, I want to name her Joy," she said when the kiss ended, the words coming in a rush to rival that of his earlier speech. "And I want to be married as soon as possible. Right after John and Mary's wedding, I don't need anything that big and splashy, and I know you'd hate it, just us and Mary and John and Mrs. Hudson and your brother and your parents – do you think they'll like me?" She'd missed out on meeting Mr. and Mrs. Holmes when they'd last been in London, shortly after Sherlock's return, and what if they thought she wasn't good enough for him, what if Mycroft tried to stop the wedding, and, and...

"Molly." Sherlock's voice was rather stern for a man who'd just been kissing her only a second ago, his brow furrowed in annoyance as he glared down at her. Oh God, surely he hadn't changed his mind this quickly? What if she'd just reminded him of how annoying she could be, what if he didn't want children and marriage and.. "Stop it, Molly, right now. No panicking. Deep breaths, clear your mind, and focus on me."

She blinked and stared up at him, feeling her breathing start to even out, her heart to slow back down to something approaching normal. Wow, so that was what a panic attack felt like. Good to know. She just hoped she never experienced anything like that again.

"Sorry," she croaked out, feeling like an utter fool. "Didn't mean to...just, sorry." She gave him a weak smile and was rewarded by the upward curve of his lips and the feel of his hand stroking her head, smoothing her hair away from her face. "Um, I love you, too," she belatedly added, and was further rewarded by the deepening of said smile into something that entirely lit up his face, like a sunrise or sunset or...or a, a lava lamp. Gave him a glow, and strengthened her own smile into something much steadier. "And I'm not, don't worry about all that stuff I just..." She was blushing, she could feel it, and ducked her head in embarrassment. "We can talk about that sort of thing later. It doesn't, we don't have to...not all at once."

_Shut up, Molly,_ she silently railed at herself. B_efore you make an even bigger idiot of yourself and _really_ give him a reason to change his mind._

Warm fingers cupped her face, tilting it up so that her eyes once again met his. The smile on his face hadn't dimmed in wattage, and his next words made it crystal clear that it would take more than a little 'foot in mouth disease' to chase Sherlock Holmes away once he'd made up his mind.

"Joy is a lovely name, I approve. Joshua for a boy, not only for the alliteration but in honor of one of the greatest violinists of our age, Joshua Bell. We'll discuss names for other children once you've endured labor and childbirth and have an opinion on whether or not you want to have more. We can be married the end of next week, barring any cases coming up to take me out of town...mmm, I'll have to text Lestrade and tell him he'll have to do without me for a bit longer. Mycroft can take care of the bureaucratic nonsense and inform our parents, so they can arrange to be in town. John and Mary will be back from their honeymoon by then and Mrs. Hudson will no doubt wish to be in charge of the small reception everyone will expect us to host, so I'll leave all the details to her. I presume you have no desire for a hen party?"

Molly was smiling so hard her cheeks hurt, and tears were rolling down those sore cheeks and she could care less as she nodded agreement to everything Sherlock had said and continued to say – something about enduring a stag night only over his dead body and being glad John would be unavailable to attempt to ambush him with such tedium. Then she shut him up by flinging her arms around him and kissing him, showing him as he'd shown her, that there was no one else she'd rather spend her life with than him.

She felt a bit bad for Tom, but there was nothing to be done about it. He was now the past, and Sherlock was her future.

"Now," she whispered in her future's ear when the kiss ended, pressing her body tightly against his. "Let's get started on making little Joy or Joshua, shall we?"


End file.
